


Beau Jest; or, The Countess of Babylotion

by a_t_rain



Category: SHAKESPEARE William - Works, Twelfth Night - Shakespeare
Genre: Bad Puns, Crack, F/M, Humor, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 06:45:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2683121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_t_rain/pseuds/a_t_rain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sir Andrew Aguecheek joins the Foreign Legion, besieges Babylon, and falls in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beau Jest; or, The Countess of Babylotion

**Author's Note:**

> True fact that I learned at a Shakespeare conference: there was once a seventeenth-century puppet show dealing with, of all things, "the siege of Babylon, with the humours of Sir Andrew Aguecheek." (Alas, no trace of the plot or dialogue survives.) I told one of my colleagues about this, and she speculated that perhaps he would fall in love with the countess of Babylon; and so this completely cracked-out tale was born.
> 
> Another true fact: William Caxton's _The Game and Playe of the Chesse_ , first printed in 1474, features the tale of the Babylonian king Evilmerodoch, who is, as the name suggests, evil, but is converted to good by learning to play chess. I have changed surprisingly little about the story.

“Next!” shouted the recruiting sergeant.

Someone shoved Sir Andrew from behind. “That’s you.”

“Oh, I say,” said Sir Andrew, stumbling forward. “Er ... I want to join the Renaissance Foreign Legion.”

“Well, of course you do,” said the sergeant. “This isn’t the line for Mistress Nightlady’s whorehouse. The question is, does the Renaissance Foreign Legion want _you?_ ”

“Er...”

“What do you have to offer us?”

“Well, I play the viol de gamboys...”

“Not much call for that in the Legion. How about the bugle?”

Sir Andrew shook his head. “I speak three or four languages,” he added hopefully. “Word for word. Without book.”

“We already have soldiers who speak all those languages. This is the _Foreign_ Legion. Anything else?”

“I can dance an excellent galliard.” Sir Andrew demonstrated several capers and a back-trick. This didn’t seem to impress the sergeant. “Wait,” he said, stopping abruptly. “How do you know you already have soldiers who speak all those languages when I haven’t even said which –”

“Can you fight?”

Sir Andrew looked around quickly. Luckily, none of the people behind him had witnessed yesterday’s debacle with that dreadful boy, or girl, or whatever. “Of _course_ I can fight. I am a _knight_. It’s what knights _do._ ”

“Well, why didn’t you say so? Welcome to the Legion. Corporal Punishment, over there, will fill out your paperwork.”

* * *

“Name?”

“Andrew Aguecheek.”

Corporal Punishment made several vain attempts to spell “Aguecheek,” and finally gave up. “I’ll put you down as ‘Andrew Smith.’ Most people use a _nom de guerre_ in the Legion, anyhow.”

“As you will,” said Sir Andrew, wondering whether a nom-dagger was very sharp, and hoping it would be long enough to keep the enemy at a comfortable distance.

“Profession?”

“Er ... none.”

Corporal Punishment looked up, startled. “Did your Mother Superior give you permission to join the Foreign Legion?”

“No, I mean, I haven’t really got a profession. I am a gentleman of leisure.”

“Not any more, you’re not.”

* * *

“Name?”

“Antonio. Er, Antonio Jones.”

“Profession?”

“Privateer.”

This, too, defeated Corporal Punishment’s powers of spelling. “I’ll put down ‘pirate’.”

Antonio protested vociferously, but nobody paid him any attention.

* * *

“Name?”

“Fabian, ah, Jones-Smith.”

“Profession?”

“Second footman. Until yesterday.”

“What happened yesterday?”

“My mistress found out about the yellow stockings.”

“Look here, we don’t allow cross-dressing in the Foreign Legion. You have to wear the regulation uniform.”

Fabian yelped. “They weren’t _my_ yellow stockings! They were –”

“Don’t allow stealing, either. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

For several weeks, Sir Andrew and his fellow Legionnaires had basic training. They learned how to wear their uniforms properly, and raise the flag, and march across the desert in formation, and climb mountains, and defend fortresses, and make a nutritious soup out of sea-cucumbers and kelp, and other such useful skills. At the end of that time, their commanding officer, Major Disaster, announced: “Privates Smith, Smith, Jones, Jones, Smith, Smith-Jones, Jones-Smith, Doe, Johnson, Road, and Party! You’re shipping out in the morning!”

“Sir?” asked Sir Andrew. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll know that when we tell you!” snapped Major Disaster. Then, in a somewhat more friendly tone, he added, “Take an evening’s leave.”

The recruits went back to the barracks, where Antonio put on his best earring and bandana.

“Going out on the town, eh?” asked Sir Andrew.

“Why not?” said Antonio. “For all we know, we might get killed tomorrow. Might as well enjoy myself while I can.”

“Can I come?” asked Sir Andrew.

“By all means,” said Antonio, “if you are that way inclined.”

Sir Andrew thought Antonio had an oddly formal way of speaking, for a pirate.

Antonio took him to a tavern called Ganymede’s. There were some nice-looking girls there, and Sir Andrew had very nearly fallen in love with one of them when he noticed that she had a rather prominent Adam’s apple. When he looked closer, she had a five o’clock shadow, too.

“Antonio?” he said. “I think these might be men.”

But Antonio had already vanished up the stairs with another one of the girls-who-might-not-be-girls, and one of the other sailors in the tavern guffawed. “That’s the _point_ , you fool.”

“Oh, I say,” said Sir Andrew. He blinked and looked around him. Now that it had been pointed out to him, he realized that _everyone_ in the tavern was a man, including the burlesque dancers. “... Right. I think I’ll be going back to the barracks now.”

* * *

Sir Andrew examined his marching orders. “The Siege of ... of _Babylotion?_ ”

“BABYLON!” roared the sergeant.

“But ... but I thought that was over a long time ago.”

“We’re the Renaissance _Foreign_ Legion,” the sergeant explained with a sigh. “That means we don’t fight _in_ the Renaissance, we fight in other times and places. Now, shut up and get in the time machine.”

* * *

Babylon turned out to be located in a very hot and sandy place. The Legionnaires marched and marched and marched and marched and marched across the desert, just as they had learned in basic training. And while they marched, they sang.

**The Renaissance Foreign Legion Marching Song  
(Starts off like “The Knights of the Round Table,” and finishes like nothing else on earth)**

_We’re the Renaissance Foreign Legion,_  
We fight when the odds are even,  
And when they’re odd, or just plain bad,  
We hide under a sheepskin. 

_We’re the Renaissance Foreign Legion,_  
Some of us are Norwegian,  
Moorish, Prussian, Finnish, Russian,  
Thai or Gambian, Dutch or Zambian,  
English, Turk, or Grecian! 

_We’re the Renaissance Foreign Legion,_  
We fight whatever the season,  
In fog or sleet or dust or heat,  
In wind or rain or hurricane,  
Flood or snow or tor-nay-DO,  
Or earthquake, within reason! 

“I say,” said Sir Andrew, “I don’t think I _want_ to fight in a tornado or an earthquake. It would be too confusing. How long until we get to Babylotion, anyway?”

“BABYLON!” shouted everyone. “And shut up!”

_We’re the Renaissance Foreign Legion,_  
And our names, likewise, are legion:  
We’re Smith and Jones and Biff and Bones,  
Andy, Tony, Hank, Mulroney,  
Mark and Joe and Bob and Moe,  
Ulysses, Caesar, Nebuchadnezzar,  
But please don’t call us Stephen! 

And they marched on, and on, and on, and on, and on.

* * *

By sunset, everyone was hoarse from singing the marching song except Private Smith-Jones, who had always had a secret ambition to star in musical theater. He stopped trying to add dance moves after Antonio jabbed him with his bayonet.

“Here we are,” announced Major Disaster, some time after dark. “Fort Windenough. At ease.”

“What do we do here?” asked Sir Andrew.

“Defend it, of course! Do I have to explain _everything_ to you, Smith?”

“Against what?” Fort Windenough stood in the middle of a vast and empty plain. Far away, in the distance, were the lights of what _might_ have been Babylon; then again, it seemed as likely as not to be a mirage.

“Never mind against what! Just defend it! You and Johnson are on the first watch.”

“Oh, all right.” Sir Andrew and Johnson climbed to the top of the watchtower. Gale-force winds whipped sand into their faces. “I say,” shouted Sir Andrew. “I see why they call this Fort Windenough.”

“No, they call it Fort Windenough because all you get to eat are beans.”

* * *

“No!” exclaimed Private Road and Private Party, who had become Fabian’s fast friends.

“Yes! And then he challenged the boy to a duel! I don’t know which of them was more scared. And then the boy turned out to be a girl! And he still _lost!_ ”

Road and Party collapsed in laughter and passed around the flask of aqua-vitae. “You know what we should do?” asked Party.

“What?” asked Fabian.

Party whispered something.

“He’d never believe it,” said Road.

“Oh, yes, he would,” said Fabian sagely. “He’d believe anything.”

And the bright lights of Babylon glittered in the distance, beckoning.

* * *

“Pardon me,” said Fabian, “are you the whore of Babylon?”

“I’m _a_ whore of Babylon,” said the girl in the fishnet stockings. “I’m not the famous one.”

“That’s just as well. I don’t think we could afford the famous one. Listen, do you want to make a little money?”

“Not as much as I want to make a lot of money. But a little will do.”

“Right. Now, here’s what I need you to do ...”

The girl’s eyes widened as Fabian explained. “Do I get to keep the clothes?”

“Why not?” said Fabian. “ _We_ haven’t any use for them. No cross-dressing allowed in the Legion, or so I’m told. What’s your name, by the way?”

“Alice.”

“Well, we’ll have to make something of that.”

* * *

“Sir Andrew,” announced Fabian, “may I present Alyssabetta, Countess of Babylon.”

Sir Andrew bowed and kissed her hand. “Charmed, madam.”

Alyssabetta stifled a giggle. “ _Very_ pleased to meet you, Sir Andrew Charmed.”

“It’s Smith, actually,” said Private Party, at the same time that Fabian said, “No, actually, it’s Aguecheek.” But nobody heard them. Sir Andrew and Alyssabetta had eyes only for each other.

* * *

“Fabian,” confided Sir Andrew after lights-out, “I burn, I pine, I perish for the love of this Countess of Babylotion.”

“Are you sure?”

Sir Andrew nodded.

Fabian was genuinely alarmed. “I’ll get the fortress doctor to prescribe you some mercury pills.”

“Not _that_ way, you dolt! Alyssabetta isn’t that kind of girl! I ought to challenge you to a duel for making such a vulgar suggestion. In fact, I think I will! Apologize, or meet me outside the fortress at midnight.”

“I apologize!” said Fabian quickly. It occurred to him that Sir Andrew seemed quicker on the uptake than usual, and certainly more willing to challenge people to duels. He wondered whether the long march in the sun had addled his brain ... or could it be Alyssabetta?

“Sir Andrew,” said Fabian earnestly, beginning to feel that the prank had gone too far, “perhaps you shouldn’t be, too, er, hasty about falling in love with Alyssabetta. I mean, we haven’t known her very long. She might not even be, ah, who she says she is.”

“My love,” said Sir Andrew, “is the very soul of truth and honor. I think I shall challenge you to a duel again.”

“Also, it can’t work out. Not in the long run.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re supposed to be besieging Babylon, you fool. You know, the city? That she’s the Countess of? You see the problem, don’t you?”

Sir Andrew thought for a long moment. “Who _ordered_ this siege, anyhow?”

“General Nuisance, I think.”

“Oh! Well, that’s no problem, then. I’ll challenge General Nuisance to a duel. And then God will have mercy on one of our souls. He may have mercy on mine, in which case I will have died nobly in my lady’s cause; but my hope is better, and then we won’t have to besiege Babylotion any more.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s our commanding officer. And because he’s in Florence. You know, the _headquarters_ of the Renaissance Foreign Legion?”

“I say, that’s cowardly of him. He ought to come out and fight like a man. But anyway, if he’s in Florence, how is he to know whether we’re really besieging Babylotion or not?”

Fabian reflected that Sir Andrew’s logic skills, while still not very profound, also seemed to have improved since he had left Illyria.

“And why does General Nuisance _want_ us to besiege Babylotion, anyway? What has he got against the place?”

Fabian explained that Babylon was ruled by a king named Evilmerodoch, who was pretty much what it said on the tin.

“I say, didn’t his parents think of that before they named him? Wouldn’t it have been better to call him Jack or Tom or something?”

Fabian explained that Evilmerodoch’s father had also been an evil king, and had intended to raise his son to be his evil henchman, only Evilmerodoch had turned out even more evil than his father had planned, and had ended up killing his father, chopping him into three hundred pieces, and feeding him to three hundred birds.

“I say, that wasn’t very nice of him at all.”

“No. So that’s why we’re besieging him.”

Sir Andrew was silent for a long time, and Fabian was just starting to hope that he had dropped off to sleep, when suddenly he asked, “What if we manage to overthrow this Evilmerodoch person, and then the next king who comes along is even _worse?_ What do we do then?”

There could be no doubt about it, Fabian realized with an unwelcome start. Sir Andrew was learning to _think._

* * *

“Alyssabetta,” said Sir Andrew urgently, “I have come to warn you. You must fortify your city and stock it with provisions. We’re going to besiege it. These are top-secret military plans, by the way, so don’t tell anybody I told you.”

“Well, of course you’re going to besiege the city,” said Alyssabetta. “That’s what the Foreign Legion _does_. It’s rather a bore, but what can you do?”

“You can prepare to defend your people, surely! They must be looking to you for protection, as their countess.”

“Sir Andrew?” said Alyssabetta. “I have, ah, a confession to make.”

“What is it, my sweet?”

“You see, I’m not ... not really a proper countess. Well, the fact is, I was brought up in a bawdy-house.”

“Stolen from your true parents by pirates, no doubt,” said Sir Andrew. “I have heard of such things. Or seen them in a play, which is much the same. I am amazed that you have not lost your chastity in all this time.”

“Well, actually...” said Alyssabetta, and stopped. After all, she supposed that perhaps she _hadn’t_ lost her chastity, since she could remember where she left it.

“But what will we do to save your fair city?” Sir Andrew mused. “It’s too bad that your king – Evilwhatsit – is so evil, because if he weren’t we could stop besieging him and go home. Oh, I say!”

“What?”

“Suppose we did something to _stop_ him being evil!”

“What sort of a thing?”

“I don’t know,” said Sir Andrew. “Perhaps we could get him to take up a new hobby, so that he wouldn’t have enough spare time to be evil. Let me see. Lady Olivia used to play chess with Feste for hours. I never could get the hang of it, but it’s a very time-consuming sort of game. Perhaps we could get someone to teach him chess.”

“Oh, Sir Andrew, how clever you are!”

“I do try,” said Sir Andrew modestly.

* * *

The chessmaster’s name was Exerses. He was also something of a philosopher, and he accepted his commission eagerly. “I have long wished to teach King Evilmerodoch the game of chess. I believe it is the truest means of teaching virtue.”

“I don’t know very much about virtue,” said Sir Andrew, “but I’m glad you do.”

Under Exerses’ tutelage, Evilmerodoch made so much progress in both chess and virtue that he changed his name to Morallyneutralmerodoch a few days later, and to Goodmerodoch the week after that. He also began signing peace treaties with everyone and everything in sight. The citizens of Babylon rejoiced. Most of the legionnaires were disgusted.

“When are we going to see some _fighting?_ ” Antonio grumbled.

“For my part, I don’t care for fighting,” said Sir Andrew. “This suits me just fine.”

“This part isn’t going to suit you,” said Fabian. “We’re shipping out tomorrow. Back to the Renaissance.”

“ _What?_ But – I have a girlfriend here!”

“There isn’t any _war_ here! What is the Foreign Legion supposed to do if we can’t besiege things?”

“Well, I’m staying right here. I’m going to be Count of Babylotion. I think I would make a very good Count.” Sir Andrew began to practice being the Count, which he had been doing regularly every night, to the annoyance of everyone else in the barracks. “One, two, three, four, five, eight, thirteen, sixty-two, eleventy-one ... Oh, damn, I think I missed a few again.”

“I wouldn’t – ah – _count_ on it,” said Fabian. “You know what happens to deserters from the Foreign Legion. They get shot.”

“Shot?” Sir Andrew gulped.

“Yes. So I think you’d better say goodbye to the Countess of Babylon.”

* * *

“Farewell, dear heart,” said Sir Andrew, sniffling, “since I must needs be gone.” He’d gotten that line from Sir Toby, who had gotten it from a singer in a tavern, but it _sounded_ poetical.

Alyssabetta offered him her handkerchief. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. Someplace they’re having a war, I guess. Alas, that I must forsake you – but a soldier’s life is one of endless sacrifice and suffering, and all that.”

“But you don’t have to forsake me,” said Alyssabetta. “I could be a camp follower. It’s quite simple. All you have to know is how to do laundry.”

“But – but you are a _countess!_ You can’t be a camp follower! I would not allow you to stoop so low – not for me, nor for anything in the world.”

For the first time, Alyssabetta looked shaken. “Are you saying you couldn’t love me if I were a camp follower and not a countess?”

“Oh no, of course not,” said Sir Andrew. “What’s in a name? That which we call a countess, were she not a countess call’d, would ope her ponderous and marble jaws and smell as sweet. Or something like that. Besides, I don’t need to marry a countess because I’ve got plenty of money myself. Three thousand ducats a year, plus my pay from the Legion.”

“Then it’s all very well. I’ll be a camp follower, and you can be my own true knight.”

Sir Andrew was staggered. “You would do this for me?”

“I would,” said Alyssabetta, and kissed him.

And they lived happily, if daftly, ever after.


End file.
